Lost in Suburbia: Three fish and a funeral

In the span of one week, I lost two fish and a coffee maker. I don’t think there is a relationship between the two, but I was pretty sad about both nonetheless.

Tracy Beckerman

In the span of one week, I lost two fish and a coffee maker. I don’t think there is a relationship between the two, but I was pretty sad about both nonetheless.

So after the untimely deaths of our fish Wolfgang and Curly, and the demise of our Keurig coffee maker, I waited the requisite two days of mourning, and then went out and bought more fish and a new Keurig.

While my husband could understand the coffee maker purchase, he couldn’t fathom why I would get more fish. We have had a revolving door, or fish tank, as it were, of goldfish ever since my kids started bringing them home from the local carnival three years ago. I have lost count of the number of fish we’ve had, and lost, but it hovers somewhere around the two-dozen mark.

Some of them lasted quite a while, but most came and went within 24 hours.

The quick turnaround fish barely got a eulogy on their final trip to Fish Heaven, or the toilet, as it is more commonly known in our house. Just a simple, “He was a good fish,” and then a flush. I guess our hearts have been hardened by so many losses.

This being the case, everyone was certainly surprised when I arrived home with a new bag of fish.

“Larry is lonely,” I explained, gesturing to the lone fish in our tank. “He was born in that tank with his brothers Curly and Moe and now he is the only one left.”

If you haven’t followed the genealogy here, Larry, Moe and Curly were the offspring of Ludwig Von Beckerfish, a carnival fish that had unfortunately died in childbirth. Curly lasted a day before he got sucked up into the filter. Then Moe passed on last week. Now it was just Larry, and I suspected that he could use some company to help him with his grieving.

“He’s not lonely. He’s a FISH!” my husband said.

“Look how listless he is,” I said. “He’s lonely.”

“Yeah honey, I hate to break it to you, but that doesn’t look like listless. That looks like tail rot. And that is how the other two fish looked before they bit the big one.”

I shook my head in disagreement and plunked the bag of fish into the tank so the new fish could acclimate to the temperature of the new tank, and all the fish could get to know each other.

“OK,” said my husband, realizing that he was not going to win the fish wars. “What are we calling these new fish?”

“Larry.”

“Which one is Larry?” he said.

“They are all Larry,” I said.

“Isn’t the old one called Larry?” he said.

“Yes, the old one is Larry and the new ones are Larry. They are all Larry.”

My husband stared at me with a look of sheer confusion on his face. This is a common look for him when I do strange things, so I just waited.

“And you are naming them all ‘Larry’ why?”

I took a deep breath.

“Well, we’ve had over two dozen fish and I’ve run out of names. And, it worked for George Forman, so why not our fish? Plus, I always have trouble telling the fish apart, so the next time one dies, I will be secure in the knowledge that the one that died is Larry.”

Just as I finished my explanation, the kids arrived home from school.

“Hey, look, mom got some new fish!” exclaimed my daughter.

“And a new coffee maker,” my son said.

“Yeah,” said my husband dryly. “Its name is Larry.”

For more Lost in Suburbia, visit Tracy’s Blog at www.lostinsuburbia.net.